Bonds
by shoottwice
Summary: (Human AU) Black and White are polar opposites. For years, they've been locked together in a battle that seems like it may never end. They hate each other with everything they have- but hate can form bonds as strong as love. And sometimes, you becomes defined by your strongest emotions. So what happens when that bond is broken? You chase the broken chain, because it's all you have.
1. Ambush

A cold smile stretched across Christopher Black's face. He crouched low on the fire escape, reaching down with one hand to slide his gun from his jacket. The jacket was, of course, black. It matched his shoes. It also matched his trousers, his gloves, his glasses, his hat, and the raven-feather hair it covered. The shirt obscured by the jacket was a light grey. He liked to think it lightened up the outfit. It was not an outfit made to stand out, and he adjusted it to fit the situation. Dressed down in the summer, a scarf added in the fall. Even a splash of color when necessary. Overall, though, he preferred black. He liked to think it obscured him. A nice black outfit made wandering eyes glance off of him like light reflected by a mirror- and that was just the way he liked it. Exactly how a spy of his caliber should be perceived. As nothing but a shadow.

He liked to think of himself as _very_ high caliber in fact, thank you very much. Especially when one considered that, at twenty-six, he was one of the youngest members of his organization. He was confident enough in his own skill to forego a real codename. The use of his last name was an old joke from the agency. As his own little pun he had enjoyed referring to himself as "Black. Christopher Black." It hadn't caused any problems at all until the day when, midway through a training exercise, he had introduced himself to the 'target' as "Black. Damn it..." It had become a running joke, and he had never seen a reason to let it go. Besides, such an obvious name provided its own kind of protection. So Black it was.

Perhaps it was the sentimentality of thinking back to his days at the academy, but his trip down memory lane took a sudden detour, and he found himself remembering that it had been only two years later that he and White had their first encounter.

It had been a simple assignment. One pull of the trigger, one muffled shot, and a political figure who had fallen out of favor with the agency would shuffle neatly off his mortal coil. Christopher had positioned himself on the roof of a nearby building, and aimed his rifle down to the stage below. He had the target in his sights, but just as the figure on the podium shifted directly into the crosshairs, something knocked against the back of his head. The cold chill of metal seeped into his skin.

"Ah ah ah," a cheerful, sing-song voice chided. "None of that now. Just think how bad it would be for business if the man I've been hired to protect were killed right under my nose. You understand, don't you?"

The familiar click of a safety being turned of rung in Christopher's ears, and he unfroze. The barrel of his rifle cracked against the figure behind him like a whip, and he dove to one side as they pitched back. He caught a glimpse of his attacker as they raised the gun up again, poised to fire. It was a male, about his height, but slightly shorter. He wore a white trench coat, which billowed out behind him as he spun to face Christopher. His sunglasses were adorned with thick white rims, and Christopher glimpsed white jeans and sneakers beneath the coat. A white hat was perched at a jaunty angle over his surprisingly long hair. The ends curled slightly at his ears, and its complete lack of pigment shocked Christopher. The man crowed a delighted laugh as Christopher ducked beneath his range and swung himself over the opposite edge of the roof, crashing through a window and bolting for the hall, where he blended in perfectly with the crowd that had begun to gather, wondering about the sound of breaking glass.

That wasn't the last time their paths would cross by a long shot. The next time they met, Black knew what name to call his adversary by. White. What were the odds? His mind wandered, and he pondered whether the other man might have gotten his name from his distinctive hair. He had heard it described as platinum blonde, but it wasn't. It was purer than that. Platinum blonde suggested a kind of falsity. Bleach and dye. White's hear was just that. White. Pure white. The color of freshly fallen snow, of crisp paper, of salt and sand and ice.

Christopher hated to see the mottled red tendrils of blood mar that perfect white expanse. His own personal pet peeve. He tried to avoid giving White head wounds, unless he was going for a clean kill. Not that he had ever achieved that goal with White.

That brought him back to the present, and he slunk along the platform to the window of White's newest hideout. He pressed his ear to the wall and listened intently. Satisfied, chipped at the lock on the window before oiling up the edges of its metal frame with a cloth in his pocket, allowing it to glide silently up.

He waited a moment. There was no explosion, no puff of smoke, no gunshot, not even an alarm. This was a little worrying. Christopher flicked off the safety on his gun and, with a deep breath, threw himself through the window. He spun in a tight circle, gun held out like a shield, casing the small apartment at a glance. There was no sound but his own heavy breathing.

Nothing reacted to his entrance. There was no trap, no ambush, no sneak attack. It unsettled him. He searched each of the three tiny rooms, living room and kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. He returned to the center of the complex with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There had been no tripwire. No secret papers. No traps, nothing worth stealing, but most problematic of all- no White.


	2. Psych

He froze, his senses on high alert. This was not good. Not good at all. He spun around, glancing back toward the window. It was a trap. Of course it was. How could he have been so _stupid? _How could he not have suspected something like this.

"Stop playing games!" he shouted, eyes darting nervously from side to side. "Are you just going to wait for me to fall into one of your stupid traps like the coward you are? Come out and fight me!" There was no reply. What was White playing at? Normally, he would have set his trap into action by now. He had never been one for long, drawn out mind games. Had he changed his style?

This made no sense. Over the years, the two of them had fallen into a pattern. Who did White think he was, just going and- and- _changing_ like that? That wasn't allowed! That wasn't how it _worked_!

Black's breath caught in his throat. Oh god. It was true, though, wasn't it? He had fallen into a pattern with White. Their routine was always the same. One of them had to be carrying some sort of plans for their respective agencies, not _indiscreetly_, but not _discreetly_ either. Just obviously enough that the other would notice. They would hole themselves up somewhere with the plans, in their own little office buildings, on agency submarines, sometimes even on off-shore islands. The other would follow, being very cautious, but always alerting the other to their presence somehow.

Thinking back, he realized that he hadn't taken his shoes off before climbing up the fire escape. While the sound of shoes against metal wasn't earsplitting, White could have heard it easily if he had been listening.

As per usual, he had taken the way in that left him with few escape routes, making it easier for White to engage him in a fight he couldn't win. What should have happened next was him encountering either an armed White, who he would grapple with until one of them managed to get a hold of some sort of explosive device and send the other running, or one of White's traps, which would preferably spring as he was climbing through the window.

This wasn't right. This wasn't the way spies did things, wasn't the way _he _did things. You never fell into a routine. He would never have out himself in such a compromising situation on any other assignment.

When had it been that he had started passing up opportunities to go for the kill? When had it been that White had begun to do the same? More importantly... why?

The hand that held his gun dropped to his side. "White!" he called. "Where are you, you bastard? We need to talk!" Again, no answer.

Black shook his head slowly. "Now I know I've gone insane."

* * *

Two hours later, he had searched the whole building over, and there was no sign of White. "Where is he..." Black growled, scanning the room he had started in for what felt like the hundredth time. Why was he even doing this? It didn't make any sense. If White wanted to just up and leave, that was his business, not Black's. But... what if he hadn't? What if he hadn't left? Just because Black was the enemy he spent the most time with didn't mean that he was White's _only_ enemy. What if he had been taken?

"What difference would it make?" Black mumbled to himself. "It's not like I care what happens to him." And yet... White was the closest thing to a friend he had. Maybe... Black had begun to think of him as one. Maybe he did care what happened to the white-haired man.

Black stifled the sudden urge to fall to the ground, curl up into a ball, and wait for everything to be over. He massaged his temples and sighed. He needed to figure all of this out, but right now, he had more important things to think about. Where was White?

* * *

**So... what did you think? Please review, follow, vote, all that. Next chapter coming soon, it will probably be from White's point of view. Thanks for reading chapter 2, I hope you liked it! XD**


	3. Soledad

**Thanks so much for reading this far! This chapter will be from White's point of view, and begins a little while before Black shows up at the building. A note on White- his last name, Valkoinen, is Finnish for white (I hope). Yes, he is Finnish, but he left when he was young, so he just occasionally slips in a word or a phrase in his native language. He really shouldn't, since it makes him easier to track down, but he loves it when Black doesn't understand his insults.**

* * *

James Valkoinen stared at the papers in front of him. The precise lines of the diagram cut across the thin blue parchment like the strokes of a knife. He ran his fingers along the red square he knew so well, the ink slightly smudged, the words contained within the box striking and confident.

'CLASSIFIED', it read, the small ridges where the ink had failed to take hold of the stamp as familiar and comfortable as the nooks and crannies of his own mind- perhaps more so, as James made it a point to never peer too deep into his brain's inner workings. It kept the job exciting, as he could never be absolutely certain what we would do next. When instinct took over, though his actions usually made sense later on, he was no longer completely in control.

In fact, just last week he made a decision that had stunned him. He had been fighting with that houkka Black again- really, who else would he have fought?- and had just lined up a kill shot. Right into the left temple, with a clear line of fire. And then he... hadn't. He had just stopped, finger on the trigger, and let Black move away. Why? He had no idea.

Strangely enough, looking back, he realized that he had been doing it for a while. The things his brain did sometimes! Really, though, he supposed it was all for the best. Work would be _so_ boring without someone halfway competent to spar with. If Black died, he would be surrounded by idiots. Not that Black wasn't an idiot.

He remembered the first time they had met- the fool had never seen him coming. The slight gasp he had let out when White had pressed the gun to his head had been absolutely priceless. There was no way he could get away with that now, of course- Black would hear him coming for sure. In fact, the very next time they had encountered each other, Black had almost triumphed.

They had both been assigned to steal exactly the same files, but Black had gotten to them first, and managed to dodge his knives- which had sent him running from Black's bullets. The memory was still quite a bit embarrassing. He had rounded a corner, and found just what he needed- a poncho and a newspaper sitting abandoned on a park bench. He had slipped on the poncho, and unfolded the paper in front of him just in time to hide his face as Black came sprinting down the road.

James chuckled slightly. Honestly, sometimes it was just pitiful how easily Black could be fooled. Those were the good old days- back when they had both been inexperienced enough to fall for that kind of trick.

He looked fondly down at the papers. Now _this_ was a trick that Black would fall for. It had taken him hours, but he had finally found just the right flaw in the design. For once, he would let Black steal the plans, and construct the 'missile launcher'- only for it to blow up in his face the second he tried to fire. Truly, it was a thing of beauty.

Now all he had to do was wait. He leaned back in his chair, turned his radio to a station in Spanish, and began nodding his head in time to 'Diez Mil Maneras'. Every so often, he checked his watch. Black was taking longer than he had expected... he snorted. _Must be taking the 'sneaky' approach,_ he decided. Ah well. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do, he realized with a harsh laugh. The song on the radio quieted slightly.

_Y sé muy bien que aveces puede más_  
_ La costumbre de la soledad_

He quickly changed the station. Suddenly, he heard the scraping of a misplaced footstep from somewhere beyond his door. A grin spread across his face. He busied himself with the plans, hunching over them as if to study them one more time, giving no sign that he had heard the noise. The almost imperceptible change of temperature in the room alerted him to the opening of the door, but before he had time to leave his seat and set his plan in motion with a halfhearted battle, a cloth was held over his nose and mouth, and a pair of strong arms kept his own locked against his torso. The unmistakeable smell of chloroform filled his senses.

_Paska! _James thought as he slipped into unconsciousness. He hadn't been expecting this.

* * *

**Yup. He was kidnapped. Just to clarify, I changed the lyrics to the song on the radio- it should be 'La costumbre _que_ la soledad'. The way I have it, it means: And I know very well that sometimes it can be more, the habit of solitude.  
**


	4. Silver Or Lead

**You're still reading! It's a miracle! Many thanks to kittylover2007 and mybloodredgrimreaper for adding this story to their list of favorites, and to MayIsCrazyMixer for following and reviewing.**

* * *

A harsh white light shone in his eyes. James blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness, and smacked his lips. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt like lead. He'd been drugged. The surface he lay on felt cold and smooth through his jacket, almost definitely metal. With a slight groan, he realized that the familiar press of the weapons hidden in his clothing was gone.

"He's awake," rumbled a deep voice from somewhere off to his left. Immediately, James felt more awake, and he struggled to turn his head toward the voice, only to find it held in place by a thick metal band wrapped around his forehead. He stopped struggling and lay still. He knew an interrogation when he saw one, and going into one of these drugged was almost as bad as being questioned while drunk. He'd been through _that_ before- not pretty. He needed to stay sharp.

A quiet throat clearing could be heard off to the other side.

"Greetings, Mr. Valkoinen." The second man's voice was much smoother than the first, with a slightly nasally tone.

"Hey," he replied, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

"I assume that you're wondering why I've brought you here today," the man continued.

"You'd like to make me an offer I can't refuse?" James replied. "Plata o plomo, right?"

"I'm afraid not," drawled the speaker. James got the feeling that he was distinctly unamused. "You see, Mr. Valkoinen, we've been observing your work rather carefully for the past year or so. And we have a... _proposition_ we'd like to make you."

James raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you wouldn't."

"Not to worry, my friend, you may most definitely refuse. However, I have a feeling that you won't find it necessary."

Slowly, James began to move his arms, testing the strength of the leather bands that held his wrists down. "Make me an offer," he retorted.

The man cleared his throat again. "You see, in the course of our studies, we've found that you seem to have something of a- how shall I put this- rivalry with a Mr.," here there was a slight pause and the crinkle of paper, "Christopher Black." All was silent for a few moments.

"Black?" James guffawed. "Voi Luoja, that is priceless! I can't- are you sure? I can't believe this! Oh my... give me a second..." his laughter slowly trailed off into sporadic giggles, and finally into deep, shuddering breaths.

"Are you quite done?" the man icily inquired.

James held back another torrent of laughter. "I think so," he replied, voice slightly strained. Then he burst out laughing again. Finally, he managed to calm himself. "Okay. Sorry. That's just-"

"I am aware, Mr. Valkoinen,"the man interjected. "There is no need. Now, on to business, if you are _quite _sure that you are finished. You have clashed with Mr. _Christopher_ quite frequently over the past three years. Some might even say you were close to him."

James snorted "Hardly."

The man continued as if unaware of the interruption. "My employers have something of bone to pick with him, and we have realized that if there is anyone who can assist us in dealing with him, it is yourself. We are prepared to reward you handsomely for any information you might be able to reveal to us."

"It seems you already know more than I do. I never learned his name."

Again, the man cleared his throat, and James began to wonder if it was a habit. "While we have learned many of his personal details, that is not the kind of information we require. You see, Mr. Valkoinen, our wish is to dispose of Mr. Black entirely. We cannot do this without the kind of knowledge that only you posses. What we need to know is how he works. Which weapons he is most effective with, his accuracy when shooting, the range at which he can hear approaching footsteps. His skills, his methods. Most importantly, his weaknesses. There is only so much information we can glean from observing your fights. We need an insider's view. You can offer us that."

Silence returned to the room. Only the sound of breathing could be heard, and the slight squeak of skin against metal as James shifted.

"And if I say no?" he murmured.

A dry chuckle could be heard in reply. "I think you'll find that a few days alone in a dark room can do wonders."

A slight smirk twisted James' mouth. "You drive a hard bargain. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline.

* * *

**Gasp! Okay, hopefully I'll have the next chapter up in a few days, because I leave for Holland soon and might not be able to update.**

**Voi Luoja: Oh my god**

**Plata o plomo: Silver or lead- this is actually a really clever line. It's Spanish, and it refers to taking a bribe (silver) or taking a bullet to something vital (lead).**

**Hope you enjoyed it! As always, thanks for reading.**


	5. Following The Snow

**Okay... I'm baaaaaaad... I'm soooorry... I'm finally getting this chapter up! It's been pretty hectic this past month or so. The day I returned from my stint in Europe, I headed for an out of town beach house for a week. I then had a free week to work on some of my projects, but I didn't get much done on this, and then I went to visit out-of-state relatives (for another week...). The day after getting back, I went to a youth conference on water rights for three days. I just got back this Sunday.**

**I'll be extra quick with the next few chapters to make up for it!  
**

**Also: Symbolic cookies to Trinity, Red Spy143, 1p, and CRAZYCOLORS098 for their support. Huge symbolic cake goes to MayIsCrazyMixer for sticking with me, supporting me, and being understanding it taking so long for me to sit down and write the next chapter!**

**Anyway, back to Christopher- Black is the new Black, and we'll meet up with White again soon enough.**

* * *

Christopher edged his way down the hallway. It had been surprisingly easy to track White down. The moment he had left the building, his eye had been caught by the thin trail of dried blood that led down the sidewalk. It had been almost maroon- not quite dry, still a little damp. A half hour old at most. At first, it was only a few drops, but it gradually evened out into a steady trickle. Christopher couldn't help wondering how badly White had been hurt- not that he cared. Because he didn't.

The blood had gone on for about a block, disappearing when it intersected the road. A pair of tire tracks had dipped towards the sidewalk in that same spot before resuming their normal course, slightly darker, as if pressed down by extra weight. He had followed the tracks to a warehouse on the outskirts of town, sure the whole time that this was a trap, and he shouldn't be following them, and what was he thinking, this was insane!

So when he had painstakingly picked the lock on the warehouse door and entered with no problems whatsoever, he began to think that maybe there was another explanation. The realization hit him like a ton of led-lined casings. _ They didn't think anyone would go after him. Didn't think anyone would... miss him._ Not that he missed that idiot, or anything. What was he thinking, letting himself caught by a bunch of goons who couldn't even cover their tracks? Not like it was his problem. He just wanted to set some things straight with the man.

Murmured voices came from the back of the warehouse, and he hugged the wall, sliding along behind rows of shipping containers towards the harsh white light at the back of the warehouse. As he walked, he wondered if anyone would come after him if he disappeared. The answer, he realized with a shrug, was probably no. That was how it went. You made more friends than enemies in his line of work. Case in point- White.

He reached the point where he could make out the words being spoken from behind the next few rows of containers. "Some might even say you were close to him," concluded a voice that grated on Christopher's nerves.

Somebody made a flippant noise of 'as if'. "Hardly," they replied mockingly, and Christopher's throat tightened. There was no mistaking that voice. What were they talking about?

He realized that the first voice had resumed its droning, and tuned back in.

"We are prepared to reward you handsomely for any information you might be able to reveal to us."

Christopher blinked. So, they were bribing him for info. This could be interesting.

White replied calmly, "It seems you already know more than I do. I never learned his name." That was a little strange. All good spies worked with code-names, but he would have expected White to have already gotten that information about his adversary.

The man cleared his throat. Christopher flinched at the sound. God, even hearing him cough was annoying. "While we have learned many of his personal details, that is not the kind of information we require. You see, Mr. Valkoinen," the man's voice seemed to take on a sinister overtone, but Christopher didn't notice. Valkoinen? That must be his last name- "our wish is to dispose of Mr. Black entirely. We cannot do this without the kind of knowledge that only you posses. What we need to know is how he works. Which weapons he is most effective with, his accuracy when shooting, the range at which he can hear approaching footsteps. His skills, his methods. Most importantly, his weaknesses. There is only so much information we can glean from observing your fights. We need an insider's view. You can offer us that."

It took a few moments for Christopher to process what the man had said. _Shit. Ohshitohshitohshitoh-_

"And if I say no?" White replied.

Christopher's mind quit. It sent in its letter of resignation, and began planning its vacation to the Hawaiian islands. It returned to clean out its office space just in time to hear the shrill, nasally reply.

"I think you'll find that a few days alone in a dark room can do wonders."

Well, that settled it. Might as well hang up his uniform right now. How long would it take to find himself a new identity if he left right now? Not long, he hoped. Maybe he could rejoin his brain in Hawaii. That sounded nice. He had begun to consider which books to bring along for the flight, but White's reply cut into his musing.

"You drive a hard bargain. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline."

Christopher's mind swam back from Maui and tore up its letter of resignation. If everything was going to go to hell, it would be damned if it was going to miss it.

"Very well," was the man's clipped answer. "I'm afraid you leave me no choice."

Almost in slow motion, Christopher turned to get a better view as the shadows on the far wall began to move, and he felt his foot hit the side of a crate. "What was that?" questioned a gruff voice. Christopher bolted.

* * *

From his perch on the building's roof, he watched a large black car pull away from the warehouse. This wasn't good at all. This meant another day spent tracking tires across the city, and he'd probably need his motorcycle. Yet, somehow, he found that he was smiling- just a little. _Stupid White. Nothing for it, I guess. I owe the bastard now._

* * *

**I know... most of this was covered last chapter from White's point of view. Hope you liked it anyway! Please follow, favorite, review, live, laugh, love, eat, ect. I love each and every one of you, even though I have no idea who you are.**


	6. Note

Hey guys! So, as you may have noticed, there's been no activity on this account for... uh... quite some time. That is about to change. I plan to go through and repost better, faster, stronger versions of existing chapters before (hopefully) drawing it all to its conclusion. If anybody out there is still holding on- the time has come.


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